Page 127 of Boardroom Mask

Kir’s fingers close around mine and we step over the body together.

He takes me to his apartment. I step out onto dark hardwood floors and stand there for a second, taking it in.

It goes without saying that it’s enormous. Frameless windows run the entire length of the far wall, and the view is absurd. I can see frothy wave caps on the East River, individual pedestrians on the Queensboro Bridge, the whole glittering skyline laid out like a diorama.

The furniture is as expected, too. No shortage of clean lines and dark, gleaming leather. There’s a marble coffee table with a crack running down the center. It’s not quite artistic enough to be intentional, which makes me think he broke it, which makes me wonder how and why he felt the urge to ruin his own furniture,which makes me remember the violence he carries inside him, which makes me flush and shiver all over.

I turn my back on it and walk past. The kitchen is as spotless as the rest of the place, carved out of black marble with such seamless handiwork that it looks like the whole room is one single, flowing piece of rock. That being said, I’d bet my next three paychecks that nobody has ever cooked in it.

I wander through the living room while Kir locks up behind me. A built-in shelf looms against the far wall, but there’s nothing on it, not a single book or knickknack. No photos anywhere. Not one. And no art on the walls. I wouldn’t be surprised if he told me he just moved in yesterday.

“It’s cold in here,” I say. I don’t mean the temperature.

Kir is now leaning against the kitchen island with his arms crossed, watching me explore. “I know.”

“Do you actually live here? Or do you just store yourself here like an out-of-use vacuum cleaner between public appearances?”

He thinks about that. “Didn’t see the point in decorating. It’s just where I sleep.”

I run my hand along the back of the leather couch. It’s cold and smooth, perfect andsad. This whole place is sad. Ten million dollars’ worth of sad, if I had to guess.

“I’m going to go shower,” he tells me. “Try not to get yourself killed while I’m gone.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s really not funny, all things considered.”

That doesn’t stop him from chuckling dryly as he turns and strides down the darkened hallway. Shortly afterward, I hear the gush of water starting to run.

I go sit on the couch, but that only lasts for about thirty seconds before I find myself leaping up again. Sitting alone in this museum of a living room feels wrong.

I drift down the hall, following in Kir’s footsteps, toward the sound of the shower. His bedroom door is wide open, but the en-suite bathroom door is closed almost all the way, just enough to let a thin sliver of light shine through.

I go sit on the edge of his bed. It’s as predictably huge as everything else, and every bit as lifeless. The sheets are gray and pulled so tight they almost look hard to the touch. Guiltily, I bend down and inhale them. No trace of Kir’s cinnamon, though. Nothing but laundry detergent and silk. Disappointing.

I still feel as fidgety as I did in the living room, for some reason. Steam curls through the gap in the bathroom door and winds around my feet like a kitten. I can hear the water cracking against tile, and every now and then, the softer sound of it hitting skin.

It occurs to me that I could go in there.

I could stand up, pull my sweater over my head, step out of my jeans and underwear, then push that door open and climb into whatever ridiculous rainfall shower a man with this much money undoubtedly has. I could press my forehead against his chest and let the hot water run over both of us. He could put his arms around me and hold on and tell me that everything is going to be okay. That the body on my hallway floor doesn’t change anything. What I told him at dinner doesn’t change anything.That we’re going to figure this out, together, because that’s what people do when they?—

When theywhat, exactly?

I pull my knees up onto the mattress and wrap my arms around them, suddenly cold. That’s the fantasy, isn’t it? Therealone. Not the kinky ones—this one doesn’t need masks or belts or hard, bruising welts to make me crave what it offers. Those things are easy, because that’s the point of them. They take meout of my head and let me occupy a body that decided a long time ago what it craves from Kir Lazarev.

But the fantasy I’m imagining, the fantasy of beingseenandheldandloved…

That’s much, much harder. That one requiresallof me. Not just body, but heart and mind, too.

I don’t think I’m ready to bare those to him just yet.

So I stay where I am. Knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, perched on the edge of his bed in my jeans and sweater while the shower runs and the steam keeps curling under the door.

Soon, the water cuts off. Not long after, the bathroom door opens and Kir steps out with a towel knotted low around his hips, still dripping. His hair is dark and slicked back, water trailing down his neck and across his collarbones in thin rivulets that glow in the light from behind him. I let myself look, because why pretend I’m not going to? This thing of ours has been shameless and carnal from the start. This is one of the perks.

He’s lean everywhere, but the leanness is deceptive, because he’s also ripped. His shoulders and arms are corded with muscle. Hisstomach is flat and hard and there’s a trail of dark hair below his navel that I have to forcibly drag my attention away from.

He sees me on the bed and stops in the doorframe, venturing no closer. One hand grips the doorjamb above his head, while the other hangs at his side. He stays right there, ten feet away. It’s like he drew a line on the floor and won’t let himself cross it.

“I have guys on their way to your apartment,” he informs me in a husky voice, looking at a space somewhere above my head. “It’ll take them a few hours, but when they’re done, you can?—”